Phillipe studied the swaying hand-movements.
"Two moons and six suns past. Pasasun ver' happy dat day. Him haf much trink—good trink—make him walk so" Phillipe's hands suggested the progress of a snake-fence. "But it no mak' him seeck dat taime."
Seven hours before Dick had found Pasasun drunk in Robison's shack. And, because to give drink to an Indian is a punishable offence throughout all the North-West, the interrogation of other Indians had naturally followed, Pasasun himself being in a state of sublime uncertainty regarding essentials.
"Why didn't it make him sick that time?" asked Dick.
"It was très bon w'iskey dat w'ite man gif him"
Dick half-suppressed the exclamation. But it was too late. Kicking Horse realised that he was presenting information of import to this man in the brown brass-buttoned tunic who sat with unknown instruments of terror about him in little black bottles and small pointed black sticks. His conscience was clear, but he did not know what those black things and that spear-eyed man might make of it. And he did know that there was an empty cell beside Pasasun's. His hands fluttered to cover again.
"Wah, wah," he said heavily, and stood silent.
Dick smothered a groan. His knowledge of men told him that this stream had run dry for all time. But because the fragments of information gleaned here and there required this link badly he drove on with his questions.
"What was the name of the white man?"
The answer came as he had expected.
"Kicking Horse him not know."
"Does he live in Grey Wolf?"
"Him not know, Corp'ral."
"Was it the same man give Pasasun drink last night?"
"Kicking Horse not know."
"Does he know anything more, Phillipe?"
Phillipe questioned.
"Not von dam t'ing." He explored further into the Indian's consciousness. " Him not know w'at him tell you pefore, Corp'ral."
Dick pushed his chair back.
"He can go," he said. Then, watching Kicking Horse
